Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [45]
It’s a miracle that none of us was beaten to death. I don’t know about my brothers, for it is a subject so painful that we do not mention it, but the extreme cruelty those teachers meted out upon my body and my mind scarred me for life.
The only happy moment I recall was the time that I submitted a painting that was chosen to hang on the school wall. I had never received any positive recognition in school before. My mother was pleased as well, thinking that I had inherited my artistic streak from her, and I believe that to be the case.
While school remained a source of constant misery, there were other changes in our life. For as long as I could remember, my father had been flying back and forth to Pakistan and Afghanistan for the cause of Jihad.
Jihad is a religious duty of Muslims, meaning struggle in the way of God. Jihad can be violent or nonviolent. Nonviolent Jihad means a struggle within, such as those who fight their baser impulses to live a righteous life. In my father’s case, the concept of Jihad included violent, armed struggle against the Soviet army that was oppressing a Muslim land.
When a Muslim believer is called to engage in armed struggle, that believer becomes known as a Mujahid. A group fighting together against oppression is called Mujahideen. The best-known Mujahideen were the soldiers who fought in Afghanistan, including my father and his band of Arab fighters. In fact, the movement to fight the Russian invaders in Afghanistan became so popular that the United States under Presidents Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan helped to finance the Mujahideen, with President Reagan publicly praising the Mujahideen as freedom fighters.
In those days, my father was a great hero to the West, too.
Suddenly there was excited talk that the impossible had happened: The Soviet army was pulling out of Afghanistan—defeated by a ragtag group of Mujahideen, some of whom were led by my own father!
I remember speculating on what my father might do with his spare time, since his life had been totally focused on that faraway war for so many years. To my surprise, my father became busier than ever, for he was in great demand as Saudi Arabia’s war hero. The Saudi government as well as private Saudi citizens had donated enormous sums of money to the Afghan cause. Additionally, many Saudi men had volunteered to fight on the battlefields in Afghanistan, with many Saudi fathers and sons grievously injured, or even dying. After such sacrifices, Saudis felt they had a huge stake in the war.
Everyone in the country celebrated the Islamic victory. As the face of those heroes, my father was greatly revered by many Saudis and by Muslims in other lands. Many men wanted to meet him, to hear about his personal experiences on the battlefields. Although my father did not seek special attention, he did agree to give talks at the mosque and at private events.
Our lives began to settle into a routine, something none of us had ever known. Our father was like other fathers, going to work each day at the family business, although he was still intensely occupied with our Islamic faith, and spent much time meeting with others about his obligations as a believer.
Happily for us, for a year or so he became less ill-tempered, though his sons were still expected to conduct themselves in an excessively solemn manner. Despite our father’s uncompromising rules, I was disturbed to hear my older brothers complaining that the only times they had tasted freedom were when our father was away, fighting the Russians. They were sorry that the war was over!
When I was a child, I wanted nothing more than my father’s companionship and approval, but those years had long passed. Although I still revered my father and desired his approval, I was no longer in need of his companionship. After giving the matter much thought, a sad reality struck me. My older brothers had spoken a truth I could not deny: Life